


I am, awake, the only one awake

by parka_girl



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parka_girl/pseuds/parka_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always about forgiveness and apologies, but some things were never meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am, awake, the only one awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ems](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ems/gifts).



> Takes place after the movie and within movie canon. The book I refer to throughout the fic is "The Accidental Billionaires" by Ben Mezrich. The chapter/section titles start out as references to certain locations, but descend into randomness and then into lyrics from Jónsi's cover of MGMT's Time to Pretend and Jónsi's own song, Stars in Still Water. The title of the fic is also from that song.

**Silicon Valley is more like a prison**  
When Eduardo breaks that laptop, when he storms out of the office, you think that there's no possible way that things can get worse. You push everyone out of your life in the only way you know until there's nothing left but lines of code. When the shit really hits the fan, because Eduardo always did keep his promises -- all of them, it turns out that all you have are those lines of code.

Except you'd turned them into something amazing, something everyone wants. Something that even Eduardo wanted a piece of. Throughout all the depositions, the meetings with lawyers, the millions of hours of hashing every minute detail of your life, you cannot shake the feeling that you're missing something. And every time you catch Eduardo's eye, every moment your gaze flickers and connects, you thinks you've almost figured it out.

And then, of course, it all comes to an end and Eduardo leaves with your money, not enough for it to be important, but your money nonetheless. You read, somewhere online, that people think you have no soul, that you've sold out. It's not entirely true, because you do feel bad, just not bad enough to change. It did hurt, what happened with Eduardo. And you were hurt, by Sean as well, because you trusted him.

None of it matters, not anymore. Harvard is behind you now, everything that went along with it has slipped into the past, only brought up by people you don't want to talk to in interviews you don't want to give. And even then, you avoid these topics because it is still fresh and raw, and because Eduardo was right.

He was your only friend.

If you could go back and do it again, you'd probably make all the same mistakes. You can't change who you are any more than you can change the kind of person Eduardo was (and probably still is). It's not your past that matters, just the future – yours and Facebook’s. You put it ahead of everything else in your life, even though there's something nagging at you, something you can't quite figure out.

 

 **It's always midnight in New York City**  
Sometimes, when the world has stopped spinning long enough that you can think without being reminded of who you are, you think about Mark. Harvard, without Mark, was lonely. It fucking sucked because not only was he gone, but everything about him was gone. No room to crash in, no late nights huddled around the computer, no bottles of beer to catch, no urgent desire to wipe the smirk off Mark's face, or to make him smile.

The apartment in New York is huge and the rent should make a dent in your bank account, but of course it doesn't. It sucked, in a way, getting all that money from Mark. It wasn't about the money, and you knew he understood that. You knew because you knew (maybe still know) Mark better than anyone else in the world. Better than his family, better than Sean Parker, better than whatever people he calls friends now.

It wasn't even about Facebook, in the end. Sure, you wanted your name on the masthead, you wanted credit for all the work you put into it. You wanted the world to know that you had a part in Mark's brilliant idea. You're not above that and you'd taken the money because you deserved it. But when you're alone and baring your soul to the emptiness in your apartment, all you really wanted was for Mark to apologize for pushing you out of his life. You wanted your best friend back, because you missed him. Because he was your best fucking friend.

But now he's the famous Mark Zuckerberg and you're just the dude who used to be his friend and sued him over Facebook. You're worth millions, you could have anything you want in the world, but you can't buy what you want. Sometimes you think about calling him up, you could easily get his phone number. Or you could message him on Facebook, which, how fucking cliché. But you don't because you don't want to know that he doesn't miss you, that he has no desire to be in contact with you again. Because even though you know him, because you can read him like a book, you keep hoping that he'll contact you first.

 

 **A - Eighth Avenue Express**  
It's raining when the phone rings. Out of the blue and maybe it's because the book's out or because he's in town, or even because it's raining. But Mark's name, right there on the front of the phone and Eduardo has to answer. The conversation is short, a few sentences at most and by the time he gets back to his apartment, the doorman's already sent Mark upstairs.

“You're soaking wet.” The words are out of his mouth before he can take them back,.

Mark shrugs. “Took the subway.”

It's so much like old times that Eduardo can't think clearly. He shakes his head, pushing the cobwebs away.

“Didn't people, you know ...” Eduardo trails off, digging for the key. He is dry, the car dropped him off in front of the building. The doorman held the umbrella. There are, he thinks, advantages to being rich.

Mark shrugs again, playing with the cuffs of his button-down. “They know Facebook, but not me, not really.”

There's something there, something that feels overexposed, but neither Eduardo nor Mark touch it. Eduardo pushes past, brushing his expensive tailored suit against Mark's wet sleeve. For a moment he stops, glancing at Mark, but then turns away. The look in Mark's eyes makes his cheeks burn in a way he'd forgotten they could.

He unlocks the door, ushering Mark inside. Once there, he realizes Mark's holding something. But he doesn't ask. Just makes a quick detour to the bathroom, tossing a towel at Mark.

“I'll get you something to wear,” he says briskly, all business now. He walks into his bedroom, opens the closet doors and wonders what happened to his jeans. He finally settles on an old pair of sweats that say Harvard down the leg and across the chest. A gift from his brother a few years ago.

He knocks on the bathroom door, then opens it just slightly. Mark's standing in front of the mirror, looking cold and awkward. The memory hits Eduardo so hard that he almost staggers back. The rain's pounding down, streaming down the back of his shirt. He stands outside the house, the music thumping so loud he can feel it. He knocks on the door and Sean, not Mark, answers it.

“Did you … thanks.” Mark's voice interrupts his thoughts.

Eduardo shakes his head again, to clear it, and thrusts the clothes at Mark. “Here, wear these.” They exchange wet clothes for dry ones.

Along with Mark's clothes comes the bag. “I got something for you,” Mark says by way of explanation.

Eduardo has no reply. He just shuts the door, letting Mark dress. He sets the bag on the dining room table and then puts Mark's wet clothes in the dryer he rarely uses. He fumbles a bit with the settings and then walks back to the table. He opens the bag and pulls out a toy stuffed chicken.

 

 **The power to share and connect**  
You only stay long enough for your clothes to dry. Neither you nor Eduardo talk, though you find yourself wanting to fill the silence that seems to spread between you. Maybe you are as socially awkward as they say, but it never seemed to matter before. And yet, when you finally leave Eduardo's apartment, you think that there's no going back, not ever.

Maybe you should've apologized or at least tried to. But that's not really who you are and you know Eduardo knows that. But you can't help feeling sorry, a little bit. Which is why you went to see him and why you brought him that stupid stuffed chicken. Because he was your best friend and maybe you still think of him that way. But the thing is that you don't think about it, or at least you didn't think about it, and now you can't stop.

It's three am when you get the text message. It's a picture of the chicken in front of what you think is Big Ben. A week or so later, you get another. The chicken again, but this time in front of a window overlooking what seems to be Mt. Fuji. The third time, the chicken at the Golden Gate Bridge. The number is always blocked and any texts bounce back.

And yet you cannot help but hope. You shouldn't because even you aren’t stupid enough to think you deserve his friendship back. Ever. You can't apologize, not because you don't know how, but because you aren't sorry, not really. You would break his heart all over again, because you needed to do what you did. Because it's just the way you are.

As you lie awake, staring at the ceiling in your bedroom, you think about all things you could say. All the ways you could say _I'm sorry, I love you, I miss you. Will you be my friend again?_ But you won't because even though you are sorry, even though you do miss him endlessly, even when you know you'll always love him, what you did was worth it. And if he asked, which you sometimes hope he will, you'd tell him that.

You get another text, a few days later. The chicken in front of Rockefeller Center. It's nearly Christmas, but not quite. Maybe you should do something, go somewhere, but you just keep staring at the picture of the chicken, looking for what you cannot see. And, maybe without thinking, you find yourself buying plane tickets. You are on the plane, a taxi to the city. You are standing in front of Eduardo's building.

 

 **The Broadway lights were never as bright**  
When the doorman calls up, you think maybe it's your brother. He likes showing up unannounced, so you don't ask who, you just say “send him up.” It's a power you like, but also hate. You never wanted to spend your life this way, but sometimes it's easier than facing the world. There's a knock at your door and suddenly you realize that it's not your brother.

You pull open the door and it's Mark. He's wearing a puffy winter coat and a knitted hat and you wonder, stupidly, if he bought them when he got here. You don't say anything, because you have no idea what to say. You think about the pictures on phone, all the texts you sent, all the ones you didn't.

Mark doesn't say anything either, just sheds his coat, scarf, hat, and boots. You hang them up because you need to do something. You gesture toward the living room and he goes. You watch his gaze as he sees the chicken, sitting on the windowsill, overlooking Manhattan. You love New York so much that whenever you think of leaving, it hurts in a way you'll never forget. It compares only to the ache in your heart that you can never fill, the ache that will always be Mark's fault.

He turns back to you as you sit on the couch, not quite next to him. The distance between you is so huge that you can't imagine ever crossing it, even when he's right next to you. There are hundreds of things you wish you could say to him. Words you could never say during the depositions, questions that you couldn't bring yourself to ask. You watch him, watching you.

“All I wanted was an apology,” you suddenly say.

He glances away, clearly startled. He doesn't answer.

“Mark ...”

He turns back. “I wouldn't have done anything differently.”

It crushes you. “I know.” Because that much, at least, is true.

“I regret … I.” He stumbles over his words and you watch to touch him. You want to protect him the way you desperately wanted to in college. You want him to need you as much you needed him. As much as you hoped he needed you.

“Sean never … He never … not the way I ...” It's your turn to leave words hanging.

He turns again, holding your gaze. “I know. I'm not sorry, I'm just … I can't change who I am.”

It is so honest that it breaks your heart into a million pieces. “I know.” You're whispering now.

There's an ache written across Mark's face that you can so clearly feel in your heart. He pulls his gaze away and stands. He walks over to the chicken and picks it up. You want him to say it should've been him, traveling with you. That the chicken was a joke, that it meant something or maybe it meant nothing.

“Eduardo,” he says, looking at though he's going to say more, and then he stops, setting the chicken back down.

You get up, you can't stop yourself. You cross the room, pushing yourself toward him. You expect him to pull away, to push you away, but he does nothing. As though whatever punishment you're going to inflict on him is nothing compared to what he's been putting himself through. But you know better. He was your best friend.

“I was your only friend,” you say, the words tumbling off your lips like leaves falling from trees in autumn.

He reaches out, fingers brushing against your chest before his hand falls. “I don't deserve you.”

Not _I didn't_ , but _I don't_ and you didn't think your heart could break again. But it does. “You don't.”

There is hurt now, reflected in his eyes. You could lean in, you could kiss him. You could press your mouth against his and tell him just how much you miss him. How much you love him. What kind of friend you could have been. Should have been. But you don't.

“I shouldn't have come …” he says, suddenly, the intense look slipping from his face. You pull back and he is pulling on his coat and boots before you can even recover.

He is gone before you can stop him.

 

 **Tall trees and wide open spaces filled with you**  
Every time he looks out his window, he wishes the sidewalks were covered in snow, that the trees were full of lights. But he is home, California. The world he built for himself, not the one he sees every time he shuts his eyes. It's too easy, giving into fantasy. So he throws himself into his work, pushing code, not that he does much of that anymore, and hiring people. He removes privacy from his world and decides life is better when there aren't any secrets.

The people he refers to as friends, though they know nothing about him that wasn't printed in that ridiculous book or written in even more outlandish editorials and interviews, try to convince him he's wrong. But he isn't, of course he isn't. This is _his_ company, and like in the very beginning, he knows what's right. The vision, which no one else is quite smart enough to see, is hanging right in front of his eyes.

If only he could get rid of the picture hanging in front of it. The look in Eduardo's eyes as he destroyed their friendship. The ones that seemed to pierce his heart during the depositions. The looks that they exchanged, or tried not to, the two times he'd flown to New York to see him. But they don't go away, they nag on him the way the reporters do. He pushes his team harder, listening to fewer and fewer people. Consequences be damned, he thinks, because he is never one to ask for permission, either now or later.

And yet, he knows full well how it can destroy someone's life. He never should've let Sean into his life. He knows this, but he thinks he would do it again because he didn't have a choice, not really. Even Eduardo knows this, which sometimes makes Mark angry, because if only Eduardo had accepted Sean, things would've ended differently. He refuses to see Eduardo's side of things, and not just because it's wrong. Mostly because he doesn't know how, not really.

It's too hard, trying to figure Eduardo out. There is no one who knows Mark better than Eduardo, which is both a relief and an embarrassment. One of those friends (who are only friends in the way people who friend each other on Facebook without meeting first can be) tries to tell him that he's being hypocritical on the whole privacy issue. He refuses to listen, because it's not about him, it's never been about him. It's always about Facebook. The world doesn't need know what it's like inside Mark Zuckerberg's head.

The world doesn't need to know that underneath the awkwardness, the attitude, is a boy who is still just as insecure as he was the day he met Eduardo. The world doesn't need to know that he is and has been in love since that very day. He wants nothing more than to be on a plane, to fly to New York and show up on Eduardo's doorstep. Without apologies, just his fingers against Eduardo's face, along his jaw. Twisting in his hair, and then their mouths, pressed together, hot and hard.

The world doesn't need to know. Mark doesn't need to know, and yet it's killing him. Eating him up because all has to do is to apologize. Two words, so simple and yet he'd rather tell Eduardo he loves him. That, compared to apologies he will never mean, seems so much easier. Almost attainable.

 

 **It's a never ending song that I sing alone**  
Spring is filled with dirt and grime. Central Park not yet in bloom and the rain seems endless. You do consulting gigs, your bank balance growing without you spending it on anything other than expensive suits and the newest gadgets. You play with your iPhone during meetings. You check your email on your netbook when you're at Starbucks. You slip in and out of crowds without so much as a waitress knowing your name.

Celebrity eludes you, unless you run into people who run in the same circles are Mark. But even in New York, it's not hard to avoid people. You don't have to work at it, just enough that you can go through your day without actually talking to anyone. You clutch your coffee in your hand, shivering in the rain that seems to come out of nowhere. You're drenched, having chosen to walk.

Halfway home, you toss out your coffee. It's gone cold and you're not really in the mood. The rain's chilly, it feels like November instead of April. You push on, drenched to the skin. But you stop shivering, because it's easier to just give in. You stop, just within sight of your building. You don't see him, instead you tip your head up, closing your eyes. The rain washes down your face and you are so cliché, but you just don't give a fuck.

You don't wonder what people might say, you don't care. You've long since stopped caring. The moment you decided to take legal action against Mark, you had to change. You had to grow up, put all of this behind you. And you tried, so hard that it kept you up at night. And now that Mark’s creeping back into your life (as if he was ever truly gone), you find that it's almost the same. Eventually you drop your head, rubbing your face with your hands.

And then you see him. Standing outside your building with an umbrella. You almost turn around and walk away. Then you nearly decide to walk past. But you think about that night, the one you cannot put out of your mind, because that was when things really ended. He needed you, you were there, but it was all a lie. You push forward and you watch as Mark walks toward you. You tried to convince yourself to brush him off, to make up some excuse.

But you come to a stop as he does, the umbrella over both of you now. He looks at you and you beg with your eyes. _Please just tell me you're sorry. Please give me a reason to forgive you._ You see it, in his eyes, but you know better. You bite your bottom lip and watch his eyes drop down briefly, to your teeth against your lip. You shiver, because you're cold, because he's looking at your mouth.

You turn, looking toward the street. Cars rush past and you turn, toward the wall of your building. Bricks, no windows. No grass, just sidewalk and building. You turn back because you have nowhere else to look. Mark steps in, the umbrella lowered and you're both getting wet now. He lets it drop until, if you look to your left, you would see only the dark blue of the umbrella. He steps in closer and your heart beats so loudly you can hear it over the rain.

 _Stop_ you think, but don't say. _I can't take this, please._ The words aren't even close to leaving your mouth. Because most of you wants this. Because you desperately want him and if he can do this, if he does this, then maybe you'll have something. Again. He steps in closer and then he's leaning in and pressing his mouth against yours. It's hot and wet and you kiss him back so hard you think you could break him.

You bring your hands up to his face, kissing him harder. The world spins, the rain goes from cold to hot. You feel his hand against your face and you open your mouth against his, twisting your tongue into his mouth. You're not afraid to be desperate, not now and not after all this time. You pull back when someone walks past. Mark's looking at you, wide-eyed and breathless, as if he can't believe what just happened.

Neither can you. And so you try to come up with something to say, but there's nothing. All you want to do is kiss him again. To twist your fingers in the front of his shirt, to pull him as close as you can. You want to shove him up against the wall of your building and do everything you've dreamed of doing with him. Right here. But you can't, and not just because the whole world can see.

"Come on,” you manage, brushing past him. You don't look back to see if he's following you until you're inside, waiting in front of the elevator.

He's watching you, watching him.

 

 **I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw, in the prime of my life.**  
The elevator is cold, all metal and mirrors. You can't help but watch him, meeting his gaze every time he looks your way. You know why you're here. From the moment you canceled your meetings and left your work phone in a locker at JFK, along with everything else work-related you might've needed for imaginary meetings in New York.

The doors slide shut and you try to project that yes, you want him. It must work because Eduardo's fingers curl in the front of your shirt, now soaked completely through, and pull at you. You don’t resist and cross to him in one long stride. You press against him as he pulls you closer, as he leans against those cold, metallic walls. You kiss him before he can kiss you. It's the least you can do.

You pull apart as the doors slide open and the hall to his apartment seems to go on for miles. You try not to think about what's waiting for you as Eduardo fumbles with the key. You clutch the umbrella in your hand until the door opens. You step in, stopping to toe your shoes off. Eduardo does the same and then he's touching you, fingers against your hips. The umbrella slides from your grasp.

His hands push under your t-shirt, the one you wore under the flannel shirt that's also at the airport. You lift your arms and let him undress you. It's both weird and incredibly intimate, which you think pretty much describes your relationship with him. You push his suit jacket off his shoulders, struggling with his waterlogged dress shirt, pulling everything off until you're in boxers and he's in his boxer briefs.

You shiver, but not because you're cold. He steps in again and you rest your hands against his hips. You let him kiss you, opening your mouth because you know how to do this. Maybe not with Eduardo, but there's a part of you that thinks this was the way it was supposed to go all along. You focus on that thought and you kiss him harder, all fire and heat. You kiss him until he can't breathe, until you're panting against his shoulder.

He pulls back, then holds out his hand. You take it, watching the way he walks, the curve of his ass. You catch his gaze and you cannot help but smile. You feel suddenly shy and think of the moment you met. The way you projected your awkward confidence and the way he saw through everything and you know he sees right into you.

The apartment is dark as Eduardo leads you to his bedroom. You don't think about the consequences of sleeping with the guy who used to be your best friend, who you've always been more than a little in love with. You've never been that kind of guy. Eduardo steps into his room and you follow. You look at his back, then reach out and trace your fingers along his spine. He turns and you suddenly realize exactly what it is you want to do.

You reach out, fingers against his chest. You think about the bathroom, the girls. You remember the way Eduardo sounded when he came. You hold his gaze and you don't even have to ask to know that's what he's thinking, too. You think he's going to touch you, to pull you close, so you make your decision fast. You shift, dropping down to your knees. You tip your head up and hold his gaze as you trace your fingers along his cock through his underwear.

He sucks in a breath and you want to be better than any girl. Than anyone. You doubt you will be, but you're not sure it matters. You lean in, pressing your mouth against his cock through the material of his boxer-briefs. You suck, just enough that he gasps softly. You press your fingers against his hips, then curl them over the waistband of his underwear. You pull them down, not without a little fumbling, but easily enough.

You curl your fingers around his cock, pulling at it. Gently at first, then harder. You glance up, you meet his gaze and it's so hot that for a moment you can't focus on anything else. Then you look down, his cock in your hand, your fingers moving around it. You lean in, pressing your mouth against the tip and sucking lightly. He moans, soft and then louder as you suck harder. You lick along it, down toward the base, then back up to the tip. You open your mouth and take him in, slowly.

His fingers curl in your hair as you move your mouth around him. You close your eyes, concentrating on the way his cock feels in your mouth. How he tastes. You can feel him tensing, getting close, but holding back. You suck harder, pouring everything you have into this. You think about how you hurt him, about all the ways you broke his heart. About how you wish you could say you're sorry and mean it. You move your mouth faster now and you can tell he's close. His fingers curl tight in your hair, pulling so much that it would hurt if it didn't feel so good.

You curl one hand around the base of his cock, the other squeezing his hip so hard you wouldn't be surprised if you left marks. You move your head, your mouth and then he's coming. You swallow as he slows, licking along his cock as you pull back. You shift, sitting back a little. You lift your gaze and he looks down at you. You meet his gaze and you know he understood. He drops to his knees and cups your face in his hand.

His mouth is rough on yours and you know he can taste himself on your lips by the way that he shifts. You kiss him, hard, twisting your hands into his hair. He returns the kiss, telling you he forgives you in the only way he knows how, the same way you apologized. The kiss deepens and you're frantic now, desperate and needy. _I've always needed you, I'll always need you._ the kiss says and you cannot be ashamed, not anymore.

You moan softly into his mouth as he slides his fingers between your legs. You think you should move, find an easier position, but then he's shoved his hand into your boxers, twisting his fingers around your cock. You're gasping into his mouth, thrusting into his hand. You kiss him harder, pushing into his hand and you're so close you think you're going to explode. He murmurs words you can't decipher against your mouth, and then he says your name and you come so hard you bite his lip.

 

 **Love must be forgotten, life can always start up anew.**  
Eduardo wakes up with the weight of Mark's body pressed against his side. Mark's face against his shoulder, their bodies twisted together. A few years ago he would've given anything for this. A year ago, a week ago, he'd never dreamed this could happen. And now he doesn't know if he wants to rush to the bathroom and throw up or curl around Mark. He shifts, looking at Mark's face. He reaches out, touching his fingers to Mark's cheek.

He doesn't get up, doesn't move from the bed. Mark's eyes flutter open and there's a brief moment of fear and then Eduardo watches as Mark remembers where he is. He doesn't know what he expects, but not for Mark to settle closer to him. Not for a soft, almost sweet, kiss. Not for the way that Mark just seems to fit against him. He stares up at the ceiling, everywhere but Mark. This is hard, it's too hard, too much.

Mark shifts, gently pulling away and Eduardo wonders if he's been too obvious. He watches Mark, wanting to say something, anything, but his mind is blank.

"I can't tell you what you want to hear." Mark's voice is a soft whisper.

Eduardo's heart drops nearly out of his chest. He wants to answer, but he's at a loss.

Mark shifts, sitting up. Cross-legged and the sheet slips down, exposing his hip. Eduardo looks at that because holding Mark's gaze hurts too much.

"I want to," Mark continues, seemingly oblivious to Eduardo. "I want to tell you that if I had to do it again, things would be different. I want to promise you that I won't shut you out again. I want to give you what you want, because it's what I want too." He stops.

Eduardo looks up. "But you can't." The words are sullen, pained. He makes no effort to hide how he feels.

Mark nods and Eduardo realizes that Mark does, in fact, understand how he's feeling.

"I can't, because. I." Mark stops, swallowing, then goes on. "I'm not that person. I've never been … you know that."

Eduardo sits up and he knows he's making a mistake, that he shouldn't do this. But he doesn't care, not anymore. He reaches out, pressing his hand against Mark's face. He traces his fingers along his jaw, tipping Mark's head up.

"I can't forgive you, either," Eduardo whispers as he leans in. "I'll never be able to," he says as he brushes his lips against Mark's. "You don't deserve my forgiveness." The words slip into Mark's mouth as they kiss.

Mark slides his hand against the back of Eduardo's neck, fingers pressing lightly at his neck. "I won't ask,” he replies, mouth against the corner of Eduardo's. "I don't … I just want to have. This. Us." He manages to get the words out before kissing Eduardo again.

Eduardo is breathless, lost in the kiss, in Mark's words. He knows they should be shallow words. Statements that mean nothing, but his greatest weakness will always be Mark. He deepens the kiss, pushing Mark onto his back. He crawls over him, gently pressing their bodies together. They don't move for a moment, then two and before Eduardo can pull back, Mark arches up, kissing him harder and half-thrusting against him.

The only thing Eduardo can think about is how much he wants Mark. How desperately he wants to feel Mark against him, how he wants to own him, in a way. It both disgusts him and turns him on. He kisses Mark harder, thinking of all the ways they could fuck, but he knows they won't. At least not this time. He can see their future as he feels Mark's nails scraping down his back. Airports and hotel rooms, Mark's bedroom in Palo Alto, this apartment in New York.

Eduardo grinds their cocks together, listening to Mark's breathing, clinging to the sounds he makes. Mark grips at Eduardo's shoulders, pressing their bodies closer together. They move frantically and without any rhythm or steady pace, but it doesn't matter. Mark comes first, a shuddering mess between them and Eduardo follows, teeth digging into Mark's shoulder. He slumps down, over Mark, trying to ignore the fact that he likes the way Mark's arms feel around him.

Their future will be lived in secret. The world will always remember them as best friends whose lives were destroyed by Facebook. But Eduardo will know better. He'd always thought maybe he'd settle down, find a nice girl and live his life out so his father would be proud of him. But that future will never come to pass, he knows that now. He'll never be able to give Mark up. If the depositions couldn't really destroy them, then he's pretty certain nothing will, not now.

It won't be easy, he knows this and, he thinks as he slides off Mark, they probably both know it. They stretch out on Eduardo's bed, listening to the ceaseless rain. Eduardo reaches out and slides his hand into Mark's. He knows, as he turns his head and finds Mark watching him, that it wasn't the money he wanted. It wasn't even credit for his work. Sure, those were added bonuses, but what he really wanted was this. Just the two of them, with nothing in between.


End file.
